


Bought for Dust, Sold for Gold

by Ancalime1



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: (I guess. technically), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, Endgame, Hurt/Comfort, Infinity War, M/M, Whump, thorbruceweek2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 05:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21369181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ancalime1/pseuds/Ancalime1
Summary: When they leave Earth, there’s a countdown going inside Thor’s head.For Day One of Thor/Bruce Week 2019: Space, Alone.
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Thor
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54
Collections: Thorbruce Week 2019





	Bought for Dust, Sold for Gold

**Author's Note:**

> I'm such an angst + hurt/comfort monger and I thought I'd finally decide to bestow some of that on Thor for a change :) This follows his journey after Infinity War, and through to the end of Endgame. Title is based off of Imogen Heap's "The Quiet," which more or less inspired this fic and encapsulates the intense yet complicated love between these two.
> 
> Also, a special thanks to @mutantbanner and @asgardianbrucebanner for beta-ing. Much love <3

_Gekk ek til strandar, To the sea I went,_

_ gröm vark nornum, my heart full sore _

_ vilda ek hrinda For the Norns, whose wrath_

_ stríð grið þeira; I would now escape;_

_ hófu mik, né drekkðu, But the lofty billows_

_ hávar bárur, bore me undrowned,_

_ því ek land of sték, Till to land I came,_

_ at lifa skyldak. so I longer must live._

_— _from _Guðrúnarhvöt, _from the Poetic Edda. 

* * *

When they leave Earth, there’s a countdown going inside Thor’s head. 

It’s oddly reminiscent of those old rocket launch sequences, the ones in those grainy NASA videos that he and Jane would watch on those late summer nights back when the world was simpler. He remembers the gentle weight of the blanket covering them both, her breath catching in excitement at ignition, her fingers twining themselves around his. 

Jane isn’t here now, though. He’s not even sure she survived the snap.

But Bruce is here. Had even tried to sit next to him on the _ Benatar _, and looked somewhat defeated when Thor declined. Guilt gnaws at his bones as he retreats into the shadows of the ship, but he stands by his choice. He needs to be clear-headed. Cold. No distractions, no signs of weakness.

He wonders if Bruce might like those videos, too. 

—

They burst through the hut one-by-one. Carol from the air. Bruce from the ground. Brick dust sprays in Thor’s wake, nicking his skin, fluttering into his lungs. He doesn’t feel pain, though. In that moment, all he feels is the lightning crackling and surging through his muscles, the dull snap of Stormbreaker cleaving through sinew and bone. There’s a scream, and Thanos’ gilded hand thuds to the ground. 

Thor almost smirks.

Except the stones aren’t _ there. _

Dread forms in the pit of his stomach, and his teeth clench. The taste of iron trickles into his mouth, the tell-tale tang of blood pooling from his cheek as jagged bone rips through delicate capillaries. _ Where are they. Where are they. _

He knows.

His heart begins to quake in his chest. The stones are with his dead people—atoms scattered across the cosmos, indistinct of the flesh they once belonged to. His heart thrums louder, faster, a mouse sealed in an airtight chamber as oxygen dissipates and fight-or-flight activates, thrashing against the walls of his ribcage in a futile effort to free itself. _ Dead. Dead. _

The blood roars in his ears, and he can’t _ breathe. _

“Thank you, Daughter. Perhaps I treated you too harshly…”

There’s a _ snap, _ and then Thanos’ head is no longer attached to his body. He’s not even sure how it happened, or if he was even there. But it comes to him just then, as his hand trembles around Stormbreaker, as he hears the words choked out in disbelief: “What did you _ do? _”

He means to tell them, but something’s wrong. There’s something welling in his chest, clogging his throat, stealing his breath, stinging his eyes.

_ No signs of weakness. _

“I went for the head.”

_ — _

He doesn’t go back to his people.

How could he? He failed. It’s all he seems to be good at, nowadays.

_ What were you the god of, again? _

He’s not sure he knows, anymore. He doesn’t know anything anymore.

He leaves Earth, hopefully for the last time. He doesn’t know where he’ll go, but he’s not going back. He can’t go back. 

He doesn’t say goodbye to Bruce, but Bruce is there, watching from his window as the Bifrost churns with electricity in some distant field. He dashes out of the Compound, but he’s too late, too late. His hand traces the sigil that is burned into the grass, the dust still warm and crackling with energy beneath his fingers. He cranes his neck and looks skyward, as if to find Thor up there somewhere, drifting among the clouds. But after awhile his shoulders slump, and he trudges back towards the Compound, alone.

_ You left him, _ comes the whispering voice of Heimdall in his ear as the Allsight passes him. _ Why? _

Thor swallows, his hand tightening around Stormbreaker as he hovers above the Earth’s atmosphere, his heart sinking like a deadweight inside his chest. _ I had to. _

Heimdall doesn’t say anything more. Something lodges itself into Thor’s throat just then, and tears sting into his vision before trickling out into space, forming little globular bubbles that glitter like miniature stars. They do not freeze though, because Asgardians do not freeze. They survive and they drift, aimless like him. 

He shakes his head, violently ridding himself of the thought. Turning his back to the Earth, he points his axe towards the Moon.

—

He crashes onto the lunar surface, sending sprays of fine basalt flying into the black. The landing is purposefully rough, because he needs to _ feel _, needs to pull himself out of this liminal space between waking and nightmares. 

But there’s nothing, and the impact is only a dull slam against his knees, and the dust flutters down onto his skin like snow, like ash. The remains of his people.

He gasps as a pain bursts in his chest, as if his ribcage had pierced through his lungs. He can’t stay here. _ He can’t stay. _

Trembling, he raises Stormbreaker, and the Bifrost swirls around him once more.

—

He has no destination this time. Just hurls himself as far across the cosmos as he possibly can. 

He never stays in one place for long, though. Every barren planet he treks across, every stellar graveyard he drifts through, he is haunted by Them. By Thanos. By _ Loki _ . By Heimdall, by Valkyrie, by his people, both living and dead. All the ones he couldn’t stop, all the people he couldn’t save… they are always there, in the corners of his vision and again when he dreams. He’s gotten to thinking that he deserves this perhaps, this torment of his mind. _ You are a false king, Odinson, _ hisses an evil voice that is both his and not, a voice from long ago in a cave far away. _ Face now the Doom of the Norns. _

And so he does. He waits in the farthest reaches of space where no stars dare to shine, and the only light that flickers is his own. The cold is almost unbearable, and is wont to make even the Jotuns shiver. But he doesn’t. He feels nothing—not the cold that seizes his bones, nor the hunger that writhes through his stomach, nor the stellar debris that grazes his now husk-like form. He is a shell of his former self, his frame sickly and limp, his skin withered and riddled with bloodied holes from the batterings of the universe. But he feels _ nothing. _ He drifts alone, hugging his knees and waiting for Death to take him. 

It never does. 

_ You have an axe, _ whispers a voice in his mind. _ Use it. _

And he does—or at least, he tries to. There’s something holding him back, though—cowardice, he decides bitterly. It’s what kept him from returning to his people, and now it’s what’s keeping him alive. Destroyer. Unworthy. False King. _ Coward. _

A rage takes him suddenly, and he hurls his axe into the black and yells. There’s no sound, though—just a bitter, aching pain that rips through his chest like a wooden stake. His body begins to convulse with wretchedly silent sobs, and he is angry, he’s livid_ , _ he’s _ tired _, so tired. 

When the Quiet takes him again, he makes his final resolution.

And Stormbreaker comes back to him, just as it always does.

—

Thor knows a few spells of his own, as it turns out.

What small moments he had stolen away from battle practice in his childhood had been spent sitting in his mother’s arms, gaping wide-eyed as she conjured smoke-feathered ravens from cupped hands. He’d never learned something so complex, of course—one thing Loki loved to remind him of in particular. This wasn’t as great a problem as it seemed, however, as Thor loved reminding him in turn of who the strongest of them was. 

Thor remembers this with a bitter taste in his mouth as nimble fingers flit over flayed skin, drenching his body in gold before healing it completely. He may not be strong anymore, but he’s pretty good at hiding it. 

He surveys himself in the mirror-like stones of an alien world and scowls at his appearance. His hair has grown long again (not that he’s deserved it, being unworthy), and he’s lost a significant amount of muscle mass. But at least his hurts have been healed. Or at least, the outer ones have.

He sniffs and turns away from the stones, then summons Stormbreaker. 

It’s time for him to go home.

—

Brunnhilde is there, waiting for him. She raises an eyebrow as he trudges up the old road, Stormbreaker slung over his shoulder, his hair tied back behind his head in messy braids. He’s almost hurt when he sees not the slightest hint of concern in her face as she looks him up and down. In fact, she seems almost annoyed. Just purses her lips and gives him an expectant _ “it’s about time you showed up” _look.

He smiles at her, but it’s been so long since he’s smiled that it feels like more of a grimace than anything. “Brunn. Good to see you again.”

“And you,” she replies flatly. “Come on. We’ve been waiting for you.”

When she turns, Thor’s heart sinks. “I know,” he says quietly, then follows her into the village. 

—

A year or so passes, and he rarely leaves the rickety little house they’ve set aside for him. He spends his days curled up on the sofa, an ocean of empty beer bottles clattering over his floor. There are days when he can barely even muster the energy to stand, but a need to douse his fears with liquor drives him up from the sofa, and his hands grasp round the icebox for yet another bottle. Just one more bottle to flush out the memory of a spear plunging through Heimdall’s chest. And then another to drown out the _ crunch _ of his brother’s neck between thumb and finger. And then _ another _ to blear his vision, so he stops seeing his ghosts, stops seeing _ Thanos, _stops seeing that jeering look that bastard gives him before Stormbreaker hews it clean off. 

Just _ one _ more, he thinks. 

But it’s never enough.

—

Bruce comes to visit him, thank the Allfathers. If he had any energy left in him, he would have felt shame—shame at how utterly pathetic he felt, a once-king now a lonesome drunk holed up in a filth-ridden house. And perhaps he does, in that corner of his mind that is still sodden with guilt. _I’m sorry you have to see me like this, _he thinks, before shoving that thought down into whatever crevice it had crept out of. He shoves it down because for now he’s happy, so overwhelmingly happy, because Bruce is back and _gods_, has he missed him. He moves to hug Bruce, and loses himself in the larger man’s embrace, in his warmth. He feels a sense of security that he hasn’t felt in… well, years.

“It’s so good to see you,” he gasps as Bruce pulls away, too soon. He’s big now—and Thor has to practically hold himself back from blurting that out loud. He wants to ask him how he is. Wants to ask him what he missed. But then guilt eats through his body like a fiery acid, and the words are stolen from him, and—

“Are you… alright?” says Bruce, in that same soft voice from years before, his velvet-brown eyes beholding Thor with a gentleness he doesn’t deserve. There’s concern etched on his face, and it makes Thor shrink with humiliation.

He smiles through it though, as always.

“Y-yes,” he stammers, gripping his beer like it’s a handheld into reality. “I’m—of _ course _I’m alright—do I not look like I’m alright?”

The smile he gives Bruce is as superficial as the magic he’s used to cure his wounds. Purely cosmetic, doing nothing for the surging pain beneath. 

But Bruce can see right through him, can see right through his facade. He always has, of course—with everyone, not just him. Still, he knows better than to answer. “We need your help,” he continues, though his eyes still search for answers in Thor’s face, a silent _“What the hell happened to you?” _still written on his lips. It’s much kinder than that of course, because that’s just how Bruce is. But he doesn’t seem to dwell on it, and Thor’s thankful for that.

“There’s a chance we might be able to fix all of this.” 

Fix _ this? _Fix what? 

In his heart, he already knows the answer.

And then when Bruce says the damned name, it hits him like a spear through his guts.

Any semblance of delight that had come when Bruce had arrived has now vanished, dissolved into thin air. An anger takes him, a blind anger, like white-hot fire searing through his vision, singing his optic nerves. His hand flies to Bruce’s arm and he _ squeezes, _ squeezes hard. “Don’t… you say… that name,” he heaves out, his voice a low growl, a warning. 

He suddenly feels as if a thousand eyes are on him, like he’s been laid bare upon an anatomist’s table, his skin peeled aside and pinned down to expose his vulnerable innards. He wriggles uncomfortably underneath the scrutiny of Bruce, his eyes darting madly about the house, intent to look on anything except Bruce, anything except _ him _. 

But Bruce smiles. That damnably kind smile. And when he removes Thor’s hand, it’s firm-yet-gentle. He’s not scared.

“Now, I know that… _ guy _might scare you,” he begins, his voice soft yet unrelenting.

But Thor doesn’t let him finish. He just laughs, because it’s laughable. It’s _ funny. _ “W-why would I… _ why would I be scared of that guy _ ?” he chokes out, the threat of tears blearing his vision, making his throat swell. “I’m the one who killed that guy _ , _remember? Anyone else in here kill that guy?” 

The silence that falls afterwards is palpable, like a plume of smoke billowing from a furnace. Like the crackle of electricity surging and splintering through air molecules. But he doesn’t give a shit. He’s _ fuming. _And he knows he has to walk away before he sets the damn house alight. 

“Nope,” he finishes, his voice thudding into silence. “Didn’t think so.”

He takes a swig of his beer, and turns so that his back is to Bruce. “I know you think I’m sitting here, wallowing in misery, waiting to be rescued,” he begins, his voice wavering. “But I’m fine. I don’t need you to save me.”

He feels the floorboards underneath him creak as Bruce comes close behind him, and a gentle hand is laid on his shoulder. He shudders under the touch, and has to stop himself curling into it, from reaching out and brushing his fingers against Bruce’s. “I get it,” says Bruce, his breath stirring Thor’s hair like a sweet summer breeze. “I won’t push you anymore, but… I just want you to know that, um. I was in a really bad place, years ago. Before this all happened. And…” his voice catches, and he clears his throat and sniffs. “Well, um. You helped me. You helped me out of it, and I want to thank you for that.”

A stone drops in Thor’s stomach. _ Lies, _ says a voice in his head, the Norn-voice that is and _ isn’t _ his. But he wants to believe it so bad. He wants to turn around and sink into the other man’s chest, wants to be wrapped up in his arms and feel that blissful warmth that has eluded him for so long. 

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything. His limbs are frozen, and his tongue feels like it’s been glued to his gums. Like he’s in space again, with no air molecules for his voice to travel through.

“You don’t have to say anything,” says Bruce after a while, the tiniest sliver of sadness in his voice. “But I want you to know that I’m here for you. Always will be.”

He pauses, as if to say something else. Something _ more. _ But he doesn’t, and then the hand lifts from Thor’s shoulder, and suddenly Thor is vulnerable again. Alone again.

A shaky sigh escapes his lips, and he falls to his knees. He wants so desperately to cry, to release all the sorrow within him and cast it out onto the ground. But there’s nothing, just a hollow ache in his chest.

And then it hits him.

He’s lost most everyone. He’s not about to lose Bruce, too.

He summons Stormbreaker and rises.

—

He doesn’t fall into the team’s ranks like he used to.

He’s something of a joke, now. A goofy disgrace, or a humiliation. He laughs it off, though, because he always does. But he knows they’re right. And sometimes, he gets a little too close to showing that.

—

He had a hunch that their plan might not work—because really, when have their plans _ ever _worked? When have their plans ever ended clean, bloodless, with no collateral damage? 

The ground tremors as Bruce hurls his fist into the quantum platform, over and over again. He hears it even now as they stand out on the pier—echoing in his temporal lobe, a dull throbbing in synchrony with his heart.

“Do we know if she had family?” comes Tony’s voice, like a jagged knife through his haze.

Steve’s jaw clenches. “Yeah. Us.”

It doesn’t quite register with Thor, though, and he turns on his heel to tower over Tony. “What?”

“I just asked him a question.”

Thor’s hands ball into fists at his side. “No. You’re acting like she’s dead. Why are we acting like she’s dead?” He can feel his voice rising, crescendoing in desperation. “We have the stones. As long as we have the stones, we can bring her back, alright? We’re the Avengers. So stop this _ shit _ and get it _ together. _”

“We can’t get her back,” croaks Clint, from the corner of the pier.

“What?”

“It can’t be undone. It can’t.”

And Thor laughs, because he’s not sure what else to do. “No. No. I’m sorry,” he begins, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. “No offense, but you’re a very _ Earthly _ being, okay? We’re talking about _ space magic. _ And ‘gone’ seems very definitive, don’t you think?”

“It _ can’t be undone, _ ” insists Clint again, hoarse, like his throat has been ripped from his body. “Or at least that’s what the _ big red floating guy _ had to say about it. Maybe you wanna talk to him, huh? You grab your hammer, you go on and fly up there, and—”

A snarl splits the air. A hulk-like snarl. And then there is the crude sound of splintering wood, and the plunge of something underwater.

Thor turns to Bruce. He’s facing the lake—facing away from them, away from _ Thor _—but he’s shaking, his shoulders heaving, the tendons of his fists jutting through ashen gray skin, threatening to burst through the surface. 

But when he speaks, his voice is as calm and clear as ever.

_ “She’s not coming back.” _

—

They assemble the stones into the gauntlet with surgical precision. It makes Thor’s chest ache to see the damned glove again, the engine of his people’s genocide suspended just meters away from his person. 

_ To bring them back, _he corrects himself.

_ No. Not everyone. _

He surges towards the gauntlet, because he’s had enough of this torment. He knows he has to be the one to do this, to make things right. To prove himself.

And if it kills him… well, maybe his life wasn’t really worth living in the first place.

But the others crowd in front of him, alarmed, keeping him from so much as even grazing it with his fingers.

“Wait, wait—_ Thor _,” cuts in Steve, throwing up his hands in placation, his eyes wide. “Just… wait, okay? We haven’t decided who’s gonna put that thing on yet.”

His heart lurches. He already knows how this will end. But he’s got to try anyways.

“What, we’re all just going to sit around staring at it? Wait for the right opportunity? Waiting isn’t going to bring everyone back,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady, still trying to feign a strength he no longer has. “I should be the one to do it. I’m the strongest Avenger, so this responsibility falls upon me, and it’s my duty to—”

He’s rambling. Second by second his voice fails him. And as more hands grab him, as Tony throws himself in front of him, keeping him from the gauntlet, he feels his chest tighten, his heart piercing with grief.

And when he speaks again, it’s no longer that thin veil of confidence. It’s a plea. A _ whimper. _

“Just let me do it,” he says, tears blotting out his vision—pathetic, a snivelling child still struggling to prove his worth. “Just let me. Let me do something good, something _ right _.”

“Thor,” begins Tony, his voice even yet urgent. “It’s not just the fact that this glove is channeling enough energy to light up a continent, I’m telling you—you’re in no condition.”

Thor bristles at the comment—because it’s _ true _ , he’s not—but he scoffs it off anyways. “You do know who I am, right?” he growls, his skin prickling with the tell-tale snap of energy, of lightning. “Do you have _ any _ idea what’s coursing through my veins right now?”

But before Tony can answer, a fourth voice speaks from the corner of the room, from the one person who has been silently watching this whole time.

“Except lightning won’t help you,” says Bruce, and Thor’s heart sinks, because he knows he’s right. 

He’s always right.

“It’s gotta be me.”

—

Thor was familiar with the concept of mortality. Had witnessed one cruel demonstration after another, over and over, ad infinitum. He was familiar.

And yet… Tony Stark had always seemed like someone _ above _death, untouchable, pure. Like a young star, burning bright and hot, freshly forged of light elements in the glittering furnaces of space. 

But even stars die eventually. That he also knew. And when the light finally flickered out from Tony’s eyes on the battlefield—on the _ lawn _ of the place that had become a second home to him—he knew then, too. With a snap, Tony had gone supernova—brilliant and beautiful and utterly explosive, only to fade, swallowed up in silence in the cold lightless night.

Thor shed no tears at his funeral. He’d shed so many, he had none left to give. His skin crawled with the passing of each second, with the thud of each heartbeat. He felt displaced, trapped, _ powerless, _ as if he were fettered in the bones of the _ Statesman _ once more, forced to watch his loved ones die as crude steel grazed and rent his flesh. He wants to cry, wants to fall to his knees, wants to feel _ something _other than this absent aching in his chest. He does nothing, though. And when he leaves, it’s like wandering through a fog, through the mists of Hel. 

And Bruce watches him go.

—

In the coming weeks, the world rebuilds. Time stops for no one—not for Natasha, not for Tony, not for Steve. 

Well, maybe for Steve. A little.

But it certainly does not stop for Thor. And Thor is _ sick _ of waiting.

He makes a decision. Not with his head, of course—he can’t quite trust his head anymore, he’s found. Instead he acts on his gut, on his heart, on the who he _ is _ rather than the who he’s _ supposed _ to be. 

He appoints Brunnhilde as King of Asgard—and really, he can’t think of anyone more suited to the title. “You know, I’d make a lot of changes around here,” she says, folding her arms, a fierce look of determination in her eyes as she faces towards the sea. And he chuckles, because he knows. 

He had _ hoped _.

“I’m counting on it—Your Majesty.”

He nods toward her reverently, his eyes twinkling. And when he turns to trudge back up the hill, he feels a hope spark in his bones—a hope that he hasn’t felt in… well.

He leaves New Asgard, but he doesn’t leave Earth. There’s some unfinished business he’s got to attend to—some unsaid words that must be spoken.

His traveling finds him on the porch of a quaint little house in the mountains—or, as quaint and little as you could get when you’re the size of a Hulk.

He knocks.

And when the door opens, he smiles.

And when he’s pulled into a hug by the bigger, _ greener _ man, he finally lets the tears fall.

He finally begins to feel.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! Please let me know what you thought, or come say hi to me @cozyastronaut on tumblr <3


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